Bane

February 3, 1998

L.C. did the unthinkable. 

The silence in the police station, the unblinking eyes of his fellow officers. 

The lack of protest from his partner. 

The dumbfounded expression on the captain's face.

"Yes. Time off. "

Never a sick day; never a suspension. Even after the death of his family and against the orders of his superiors, he went back to work. They sent him to psych, he came back with a clean bill of mental health. They sent him to medical, and he came back fit for full duty.

No one else - none that L.C. could imagine - could raise or lower their blood pressure, their body temperature, their heartbeat with less effort than breathing. He knew the right answers, he knew the right numbers, he knew what he had to say and do to keep working.

Now he was taking a vacation to go "sight seeing" across the United States.

He expected the captain to ask if he was joking. 

He expected to hear the captain to snort, to chortle, to ask, Sight seeing, you? Hah! 

His request was approved so fast, he had not set foot outside the captain's office and his request was already approved.

The three-thousand-one-hundred-twenty-four mile trip from Driftwood to Salem, Massachusetts was not his idea of some grand vacation and once outside of Driftwood, outside of Colt County, his connection would be severed. That flawless instinct, that one-hundred percent arrest record, all of it would stay behind until his return.

Then the anxiety would come; that emptiness that formed being away from Driftwood. 

Perhaps he did not obey the call of the city itself but he needed Driftwood. Perhaps the city hated him in as many ways it did, considered him a traitor and fought his every demand but Driftwood needed him, too.

As far as he knew, he was the last of his kind. At least for now. Driftwood without citywalkers was a fragile dam without safeguards. Any semblance of balance would topple and without a doubt some weird shit would happen in his absence.

L.C. sped up, driving for the city limits. He passed and sped past a patrol car and expected the officer would pull him over, but they never did. He saw the high beams flash behind him, and gritted his teeth. The department was encouraging his 'vacation'.

They wanted him to go. L.C. grumbled to himself. "You miserable bastards. I hope you all get a terrifying dose of the strange luck. I'm not rooting for you."

He felt a cold drop in the pit of his stomach, and slowed to a stop as he reached the border leaving Driftwood and Colt County. He could see faint shades the shape of people standing on either side of the road. They blurred the rain and obscured his headlights in the pallor of the late afternoon gloom beneath the storm clouds.

"To hell with you, I have to go. Entertain yourself with someone else."

The engine died in L.C.'s late model American Classic.

"I'm leaving."

He could feel the protest nagging in the back of his head.

"I don't care. That's your problem. I have something to have to do. I'll be back."

Doubt.

"I promise."

The tinny sound of AM talk radio faded in and out of his radio, the angry sound of hissing static growing louder between the weakening radio reception.